Disposable Hero
by doombitch
Summary: The saying goes, "It's not how you kill a man, but how you help those who in need." or something like that. Soldier goes above and beyond the call of duty to help a young runaway free herself from the bonds of the black, slimy underbelly of life.


She was nothing but cherry red lips, fingernails chewed to the quick, knobby knees, and a color of blonde that came from a bottle. Couldn't have been more than eighteen, and surely wasn't allowed legally in the bar.

Soldier had seen it all before at Leroy's, a dirty little place he frequented whenever he was on leave from the gravel wars. Since he'd drifted in a few years back, a stranger in a town with no more than a few hundred people brandishing a wallet full of hundred dollar bills, he'd attracted all kinds of folk: some homeless veterans from WWII (Soldier always gave each of them at least $50, proudly crowing that he was helping his fellow brothers in arms), drug dealers looking to sell whatever stock they had (Soldier always beat the shit out of them, screaming about those damned hippies before the cops showed up to arrest him. Thankfully Mann Co. always got those incidences tidied up, otherwise he'd be in jail for the rest of his life), and of course, ladies of the night looking to see if he'd be interested in their services.

The prostitutes he didn't mind in the beginning, in fact Soldier had more than once enjoyed their business. But the years went by, and the women got younger and more desperate. He could tell by the dirty clothes that didn't fit, the almost deadened look in their eyes, the mechanical way they moved on top of him. That bothered him, and he would flat-out refuse them, making some cry if they'd badgered him too much, hollering about how they disgusted him.

He knew most by nicknames, brands by which a pimp differentiated his girls from another pimp. Some were nicknamed after jewels, some after cars, some with simple cutesy names that felt like worms crawling under his skin when he could hear a fellow patron moan it.

Most of the girls who frequented Leroy's learned to stay away from Soldier, even the newer ones learned from the veterans to not even bother trying.

That is, until a new pimp blew into town.

He'd been gone for six months, a lengthy campaign against BLU had ended in victory, and a hefty pay raise. Soldier blew into Leroy's the night he got back into town. The bar was jumping, filled with loud music from the jukebox and obnoxious laughter from the drunks. He damn near kicked the door off the hinges, making the bartender jump and then scowl when she saw who it was.

"Damnit Solly, you damn near gave me a coronary," she groused loudly, preemptively getting a pint out from under the bar, filling it up with Soldier's preferred ale.

"I don't know where that sissified talk is coming from Private, I expect you to expect the unexpected at all times!" Soldier found an empty seat at the end of the bar where the corner met the wall. He wanted to keep eyes on the door and windows at all times, "Besides tonight, we celebrate our victory!"

Loretta shook her head, and slid the pint in front of him. Without another word, she went back to her industrious cleaning of the bar. Soldier took a sip, 'subtly' eyeing the rest of the bar. It was busy and loud, it wasn't a surprise no one else had noticed his entrance, which had deflated some of his bluster, but he was in too high of spirits to care. He had been victorious, and that's all that mattered.

Soldier was left alone to his drinking. He kept to himself, sitting there alone for two hours, though he would have loved to share his war stories with someone. The men he recognized and normally would unceremoniously sit with were busy slobbering over the tittering women who were young enough to be their college-aged daughters. Others were dancing near the jukebox, grinding into one another. It was enough to make a patriot like him sick; so many hippies dancing all loose and free like they were in some goddamn Woodstock. All of them people he knew in passing.

However, he didn't notice a new face in the crowd, a pale, gangly, slightly younger man with a pointed goatee sitting at the table surrounded by women in the corner across the room from him. When the goatee'd man directed one of the girls in his general direction, Soldier was already on his fourth drink, feeling pleasantly buzzed.

He was about to start on his fifth pint when the girl sat on a barstool beside him. She smiled at him, her lipstick had rubbed off on her teeth, but she hadn't noticed, "Hi" she breathed.

Soldier stared at her. It was at least 30 some degrees when he was last outside and that had been hours ago, and there she sat, in a neon pink plastic mini skirt, ripped white tank top, heels that put at least another five inches on her height, and no sign of a jacket. Red lipstick. BItten off nails. Probably too young to drink.

He didn't recognize her.

His good mood instantly vanished. He turned away from her, going back to his drinking, "I'm not interested in any piece of ass you're selling kid." She fleetingly looked affronted, like he had offended her, which quickly melted back into that smile, almost mechanically, "Who said we have to do anything like that? What if we just party together?" Her arms slid around his arm, "My name is Cherry, what's yours?"

Soldier tried to pull his arm away in disgust, but she clinched onto it tighter and pulled him close to her. Her lips were centimeters away from his ear when she breathed into it, "Look you see that guy on the other side of the bar? The one who's watching us?" Soldier looked at the man watching them intently, "He's going to beat the shit out of me again if I don't make him any more money tonight." He felt her heart beat like a rabbit's against his bicep, "Please, I don't care what you want me to do, it doesn't have to be sex, I'll clean your fuckin' house or something, just for the love of god, _pay me for something_."

He turned and looked at her again. Her face appeared to be smiling seductively, but he could see the cold fear in her eyes. He smiled at her, which was supposed to be something in the ballpark of reassuring, but came out slightly demented. "Fine." Without another word, he got up, Cherry still wrapped around his arm. He nodded at the pimp, who's steely gaze followed them as they walked out that bar, into the cold night air.


End file.
